Solutions
by SHolmes4
Summary: Sequel/continuation of Seven Percent  Read that first   Sherlock and Mycroft's relationship has changed since the drugs, will new acquaintances and a semi healthier lifestyle help them progress...  Not slash
1. Ill

AN: This is the continuation of the story Seven Percent (Read that first)

ENJOY!

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><p>Sherlock stands nervously, waiting for his mum and aunt to collect him from the airport. A part of him feels like a child again, minus the cigarette in his hand and the mild tremor that seems to be a residual detox symptom. It's a terrible reminder of weakness, he knows it will dispel eventually, but he could do without it all the same. Quickly he rids himself of his tobacco product, when he catches sight of the familiar dark haired women.<p>

"Bebe!" Madame Holmes greets happily crushing him into a hug, "I missed you so much," she informs him fondly with a sad smile, placing her hand on his face as she takes a good look at him.

"I've been busy mummy," he informs her quietly.

"I can see that," she tisks, moving to hail a cab.

"You look terrible, petit," Vie states aside, knowingly.

"I'm here aren't I," Sherlock shrugs, picking up his sack and following the women.

Back at Vie's Sherlock gets settled and they sit down for lunch.

"What have you been up to in London, cher?" Madame Holmes asks.

"Oh this and that…" he hedges, taking a bite of his food.

"You still doing that consulting thing?" Vie wonders.

"Ya," Sherlock nods, not wanting to draw attention to that, but earning the familiar look from mummy, "Yes…" he corrects himself.

"Sounds exciting," his aunt smiles.

"I think it sounds dangerous," Madame Holmes laments, "I can tell you aren't taking care of yourself Sherlock," she sighs. "If you just found a proper job, you'd meet a nice girl…person," she corrects, "Then I wouldn't have to worry about your absent mindedness…"

"Dull…" Sherlock sighs, "I'm sure Mycroft will find a nice girl to give you fat grandbabies, Mummy…"

"I've given up on your brother, he's married to that retched job of his... Just like your father." She sniffs.

"Not everyone marries, Mar," Vie glares at her sister with a clear warning.

"This soup is lovely, Tata," he quips with false cheer to sway the conversation and prevent his mother from turning on the other woman.

"Ah, merci," She beams, "I'm glad to see you are actually eating."

"You're still terribly thin," Madame Holmes adds, stroking his jaunt cheek motherly. "You're not getting ill are you?"

"No," he shrugs off her touch, "I'm fine."

They finish eating, Madame Holmes heading off other parts of the house as Sherlock sneaks out to smoke. His aunt following shortly after him; he lights her cigarette for her with is silver lighter before she turns on him.

"Out with it."

"Pardon?" Sherlock raises an eyebrow in challenge.

"You may have your mama fooled petit…" Vie sternly waits for him to talk as they continue to smoke.

The young man sighs, knowing there's no way of getting out of this. "It was either the work or the…" he intones robotically and takes a drag, "I chose the work."

"Well, I'm a bit sad that it had to come to that…" She states honestly, "Mycroft's doing, no doubt?"

"No," Sherlock sighs rolling the tobacco stick between his fingers.

"What happened?" Vie asks, rousing the young man from his thoughts.

"Nothing," he tells her simply, tossing the cigarette butt and heading back into the house.

Mycroft's schedule prevents him from coming until Christmas Eve, arriving just in time for dinner.

"How was the trip cher?" Madame Holmes asks as she finishes setting the table.

"It was fine mummy, I'm just glad I was able to pull myself away."

"I know I sound like a broken record, Mycroft, but you work too much."

Sherlock carries the roast into the dining room, "Oh you're here," he greets his brother flippantly.

"How are you Sherly?" Mycroft inquires pleasantly.

"I'd prefer if you refrained from calling me that," he informs the older man, as he places the food on the table.

"What's gotten into you Sherlock," Madame Holmes inquires, watching the cold glares being passed between her children.

"It's nothing mummy," Mycroft assures her, "You know how Sherlock gets…"

"Indeed, we best eat now, we know how you get…" the younger man insinuates as he takes his seat.

"Well, the both of you stop it this instant, it's Christmas," she warns.

Vie enters with the side dishes and joins the table, the woman looking at her nephews in confusion knowing she missed something. "Bon appetite," she smiles through the palatable tension in the room. She starts to carve the roast to serve everyone.

"No.. no.." Sherlock interjects, "Mycroft needs a much bigger portion then that, tata… has to keep up his figure."

"Will you stop this," Mycroft pleads snappishly, knowing full well this was his brother's way of addressing the older man's apparent disregard. "If you want attention, become an actor," he shoots.

"How's Rosemary, brother?" Sherlock asks with a knowing sneer, Mycroft's jaw setting as he shoots the younger man a warning look. "Oh, that's right…" he smirks triumphantly.

"Rosemary Byrne?" Madame Holmes interjects with interest, "I didn't know you where seeing her…"

"I'm not," Mycroft replies tersely.

"Was it you who didn't call around…or was it her?" Sherlock feigns curiosity.

"I can't recall, brother," the older man smoothes airily, "Though since you seem to be in a sharing mood…" he begins, earning a wide eyed look of challenge from his brother. "Perhaps you'd like to inform Tata and Mummy what you've been up to lately…"

"Yes," Vie interjects, "Are there any cases you can tell us about? I'm sure it's quite interesting."

"That's hardly relevant," he seethes, ignoring his aunt, "Blow up any third world countries?"

Mycroft smirks sardonically, "That's hardly a part of my job."

"You don't have to lie for mummy's sake… I'm sure she can handle hearing what you've become."

"What I've become," he iterates with incredulity.

"Enough!" Madame Holmes snaps, breaking her sons out of their verbal sparring. "I do not know what has gotten into either of you," she shakes her head, "Whatever it is you fix it or at the very least pretend to be civil for the sake of Christmas dinner."

"My apologies, Mummy," Mycroft offers, "It was quite childish," he insinuates.

Sherlock nods seemingly in agreement, but with a pout as he observes his brother.

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	2. Explanations

That night, Sherlock's pacing around his room and it takes all of Mycroft's will power to not check on the other man. It was clear there were still residual detox symptoms despite the fact that the screenings where coming back clean, probably because their where still trace amounts in Sherlock's system that are too small to be detected. Mycroft laid there, staring at the ceiling as he listened to the younger man's tread.

It was clear that tata knew, she was a lot less oblivious then mummy tended to be and probably coaxed it out of him; though she didn't know all the details. Mycroft couldn't help but wonder if he was taking the proper course of action here. He exhausted all other outlets to help Sherlock, so it seemed that tough love was the only thing left. This situation was confusing to say the least, and it hurt him; though he wouldn't admit it.

Mycroft didn't want to be the bad guy in Sherlock's life; he didn't want to take any role their father abdicated with his death. It was unfair of the younger man to do that to him, but he reasoned that it may be another necessary evil. The elder man's mind wandered back to the simplicity of their youth, and if Sherlock could even recall those times anymore. A part of him hoped so, but another part of him knew that they were probably buried now. Hidden under all the more important categories filed in his brother's brain, along with the pain and resentments he was harboring.

Again, it was unfair. Mycroft knew, probably better then Sherlock even realized; that the only person his brother was really cross with was himself. Addiction made him weak, it made him human; it made him something he strived so hard to not be. They both did in away, Mycroft felt things more deeply than anyone would expect of him, but he released those emotions privately. He always thought of his feelings as something secret, something so personal that it made sense to only share them with himself. It helped his job, since reading people's emotions came naturally to him, but he also tended to very hard on himself when dealing with shortcomings.

Sherlock, on the other hand, ignored his feelings. He'd occasionally analyze them only to dismiss it with logic and continue on. If he did take pause to look to internally into that neglected corner, he'd break down. Mycroft suspected that's what kept him going back to the solution; it had started as scientific inquiry until Sherlock realized it could distract him. The younger man's petulant abhorrence for boredom stemmed from the fact that when there was nothing to set his mind to, his mind set upon itself.

The accidental email Mycroft received was proof of that, every little failure or unpleasant thought would be magnified and reconstructed. Mycroft only understood a part of what that was like, while his mind worked in a similar fashion he, for lack of a better term, was more, well adjusted with such things. He only contemplated what could have been done if he was at fault or if the situation ended horribly; though he strived to prevent such things. Sherlock, on the other hand, did that with everything; acting like nothing mattered when it did, regardless of his acknowledgement. It was no wonder he would forgo sleep and idleness.

Mycroft continued to ruminate over his actions and the well being of his sibling, trying to discern what more or less could be done. The startling realization was that it didn't really matter what capacity Sherlock would put him in; as long as he was still a part of his life. If brotherly bickering and ruined Christmas's where to be the future then he'd take it, even if it meant he was now the enemy. It wouldn't prevent him from caring and it certainly wouldn't stop him from keeping an eye on his baby brother, no matter how much of a disadvantage that would be.

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	3. Thoughts

AN: I know it's short, but I haven't forgotten about this story so don't worry... I just wanted to delve into what Sherlock was thinking on the other side of the wall.

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><p>Sherlock couldn't sleep so he smoked, moving about trying to calm his mind and stop the unpleasant thoughts. Wondering if his brother was sleeping and couldn't help but be a bit jealous that he probably was. He alone knew that the dark moods where not just a side effect from detoxing, but an ever present current within his psyche. The detox just amplified them, and his idle time was becoming harder and harder to bare. As silly as it was, a part of him wanted nothing more than for someone to simply embrace him like when he was small; tell him it matters.<p>

That's how he feels, small, insignificant, and useless. Nothing he will ever do will matter and in the end there's nothing, there's only his mind. Sherlock's internal world has always seemed more real than anything the supposed "real" world has to offer. The puzzles of the criminal class merely let his mind focus on something long enough to find it interesting before moving on. These irrational thoughts plague him from time to time, wondering if he could rip the skin from his muscles and see in side. Wondering if he'd even feel it, he's been beat up and cut enough times to register pain and that seems to be a fleeting thing. Guilt seems the more prominent emotion.

Sherlock contemplates what other's would think if they could see into his mind, they majority already think him a freak. Little do they know just how odd he really is, it would have him sanctioned for certain. Grant it, he's no expert in how the normal people think or feel; but it's probably not on to think about removing your own skin or how you'd kill yourself the most efficiently. These thoughts help with the work however.

That's not to say he's suicidal, Sherlock knows he doesn't want to die, but he's not sure what really constitutes being alive. There are no definitive answers to some of his questions and it's frustrating. Theorizing is fun, but knowing for sure is where the real thrill is. How do these simple people walk around with their ordinary lives and feel complete, unless ignorance really is bliss. Then Sherlock envies them that, but isn't sure if he'd be happier or not. Mediocrity knows nothing higher then itself, but talent instantly recognizes genius.

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	4. Imagine

It was well into 4am when the noises from his brother's room finally died down. Mycroft settled down to sleep, assuming Sherlock had finally quieted his mind to sleep. Unfortunately his own over active mind supplied an alternative thought to that, which spurred him out of bed and to his brother's door. With a steadying breath he gently opens the door to find Sherlock perched, as usual, on the window sill with his knees tucked up and his head bowed in sleep; exhaustion catching up it would seem.

Sherlock wakes up the next morning in his bed, not entirely sure if he remembered falling asleep there; but dismissing it. He pads down the stairs to the kitchen, greeted by the smell of breakfast and the peacefulness of morning. Mycroft's sitting at the table reading the paper while Vie flits about the kitchen imparting a Christmas greeting when she sees her other nephew.

"Morning brother," Mycroft states flippantly, distracted by his paper.

"You look terrible," Sherlock observes the blatant lack of sleep.

"I do not know what you're on about…" He lies with disinterest, "I Slept like a baby."

"I'm surprised you can remember what it was like being a one," The younger man jibes.

"I'm constantly reminded," Mycroft smirks haughtily at the implication, giving his brother a smug look.

"Get it all out now," Vie warns placing things on the table, "Before your mama comes down, no spoiling the holiday."

"It's too late for that," Sherlock sighs, snagging one of Vie's cigarettes from her 'hiding place' and slipping out the back door.

When Sherlock returns, Mummy had joined them at the table and the three of them where already tucking in.

"Bebe," Madame Holmes greets cheerfully, "I hope you don't mind we started without you."

"Not at all," he offers taking his seat, "Wouldn't be first time," he adds under his breath.

"Mycroft," mummy turns her attention to her eldest, "Are you seeing anyone?" She smiles, "You mentioned a new assistant…"

"Yes, but she is merely an employee mummy," Mycroft replies matter of factually, "It would be highly inappropriate."

"Oh pah," she waves him off, "A little office romance never hurt anyone. Family is important after all… "

"Not as important as more bebes in the family," Vie winks aside.

"I've been too busy with work…"

"Work," mummy shakes her head.

"Highly classified no doubt," Vie smiles knowingly.

"He'd be thinner if he had a romantic entanglement," Sherlock supplies, "He isn't so he's clearly not."

"Sherlock, please…" Madame Holmes sighs, "It's too early for your condescending little tidbits."

"If you'd just observe, you see it as well and I'm not condescending."

"Your tone says otherwise…And why would I do that when I can just talk to someone and find out…" She shakes her head dismissively.

"People lie," Sherlock states simply.

"That's cynical, not all people," Vie smiles softly.

"Not in my experience," Mycroft offers truthfully, while aiding in lightening the morning.

"Well you're in the politics and such," Madame Holmes explains, "Now no more of this nonsense. Sherlock, watch your tone you understand." She warns.

"I cannot 'watch my tone' as you say, it's impossible…"

Mycroft shoots his brother a warning look after kicking him under the table to try to silence him, knowing his antics aren't going to help. "Ah…" Mycroft stifles his mild outburst from the pain of the kick he receives in return.

"You know quite well what I mean," She states sternly.

"Presents, then?" Vie interjects standing from the table to get everyone off to the next room.

They move on to presents, Sherlock finding the holidays becoming more and more boring. The whole thing being quite ridiculous considering they are no longer children and this was a useless distraction from the work. Mycroft receives their father's pocket watch, as is tradition. Sherlock, while not really wanting the item can't help but feel a bit jealous.

"I thought it would be a nice surprise at Christmas," Madame Holmes explains a bit teary eyed.

"It's perfect mummy," Mycroft nods thoughtfully.

Sherlock opens his similarly wrapped present to discover a large jar of marbles, the one he vaguely remembered from his father's office which were not to be touched. "The marble collection…"

"Yes, he wanted you to have it… It belonged to your great-great-grandfather and has been passed down since, just like the pocket watch," She informs him.

"Mmm…" he nods dumbly, rising to his feet, "Excuse me," he mumbles, placing the jar down on the coffee table and leaving the room.

"Is he alright?" Vie wonders aloud.

"Probably just a bit emotional," Madame Holmes naively smiles sadly, only half right.

"I'll go check on him," Mycroft offers robotically.

He finds Sherlock out back pacing, his hands trembling as he clutches the cigarette. "Go away," he instructs, not wanting to be caught out like this.

"No," Mycroft stands his ground, "Is this really about the marbles?" he prods.

"Yes… no," He shrugs moving wildly, as if the activity will prevent any kind of physical response to how he's feeling. "I don't know…"

"They are a family heirloom, Sherlock."

"Yes and of all the things to leave me…" He sniffs.

"I know you don't want the pocket watch," Mycroft states sagely.

"No, I understand that goes to the eldest and you should have it," Sherlock explains, "I just I don't want the stupid marbles and it just proves that Father…" He inhales sharply, his back to his brother while his shoulders visibly shake.

"He's dead Sherly…" the older man cautiously tries to soothe him, "I understand he was a hard man to love and an even harder man to miss, but…" he falters, not sure what point he's trying to make; the two of them remaining quiet for a beat.

"I'll be in shortly," he dismisses the other man.

"Very well," Mycroft nods with a fleeting glance before stepping back into the house.

Sherlock doesn't return until an hour or two later, having wandered off shortly after Mycroft left him.

That was the last Christmas they spent together, despite mummy's persistence; Sherlock always finding excuses or ignoring them all together. Mycroft was able to focus more on work while keeping only a cursory eye on his brother. They hardly saw each other over the next year or two, Sherlock gallivanting around town in pursuit of the criminal class.

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	5. Progress

AN: I'm not sure what I think about this chapter...I hope you enjoy it...

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><p>Mycroft does his best to keep an eye on his brother over the next couple years. Making sure to read every report and sending the occasional email or text; he never gets a response, but he didn't really expect to. Mummy's persistence died down a bit after the first year, which was a welcome respite for the eldest son. He even started dropping off a few cases from time to time, and extended a couple meal invitations.<p>

Sherlock pressed on with the game, as he called it. Slipping more and more into the robotic persona that he created for himself; not to say it wasn't sincerely how he felt, but most people tiptoed around so afraid to step on others. It was a waste of time and the coldness made it even easier to work efficiently, it was simple logic. One of his most challenging things was staying out of his brother's ever watchful eye and avoiding the occasional "kidnappings" that Mycroft seemed so proud of. The emotional distance was easier after he found the effects of morphine.

The elder Holmes perused the usual report on his brother's comings and goings, when his assistant came in with a newly acquired bit of information.

"It may be unrelated sir," She enunciates efficiently, "It seems some pharmaceuticals have gone missing at St. Bartholomew's."

"Specifically?" Mycroft wonders.

"Morphine, sir," She replies after glancing at her file and then is promptly dismissed.

Mycroft's brow creases in concentration as he turns over the probability of Sherlock being the culprit and why. It seemed a visit was quite in order; make sure it wasn't a part of national security. Once he arrived, he found his brother on the sofa lying in contemplation. Sherlock completely immobile, with his eyes closed and hands under his chin; seemingly lost in thought.

"Can you not knock," Sherlock intones lazily.

"Would you answer?"

"Perhaps…" he drawls, "I haven't got much on."

"In between cases, I see," Mycroft looks around in mild disgust as he observes the mess and various experiments about.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock remains immobile, not even opening his eyes.

"A fact has come to my attention," he begins nonchalantly.

"Oh?"

"It seems there's a bandit of sorts lurking about Bart's…You wouldn't know anything about that would you?" Mycroft questions airily.

"I doubt that's really a concern of yours," Sherlock glances at the older man, before hopping up and heading into the kitchen area. "I hardly even smoke anymore," he adds, perusing his barren fridge.

"Yes, I noticed the patches…" he offers with mild condensation, clearly disapproving of the amount of patches. "As to the missing items, I'm sure someone of you skills could discover who's behind it… Surely, you'd notice something going on right under your nose."

"It's probably an orderly who needs the money… therefore dull," He shrugs, drinking what's left of the orange juice straight from the container, "And not my problem, hardly yours and I just had a search so you can question your own sniffer dogs, I'm sure they can get figure it out just as easily."

"You're passing up the chance of a case," Mycroft quirks a brow.

"Yes, it appears my disdain over rules even the most stimulating mysteries," He sneers with sarcasm, "Well spotted."

"Sherlock," he sighs, growing tired of beating around the bush, "You know why I'm interested…"

"Yes," Sherlock answers in a superior tone, "Now if you wouldn't mind…" He strides off to shower, slamming the door.

"This isn't over brother," Mycroft calls after him, "There better be nothing to discover," he warns before leaving.

In the end his people don't find anything worth reporting about the incident, the case seemingly unrelated to Sherlock; which would be more of a relief he didn't have feeling his visit was responsible for that. Hopefully, it was just a coincidence and Sherlock was branching out to other illegal substance for god knows what. Then again perhaps he merely solved the Bart's case discreetly.

Months later, Mycroft received the weekly report informing him that Sherlock would be need to find new living arrangements, that he figured it was only a matter of time before his brother came waltzing back. They even met for what turned out to be a horrible, for unforeseen reasons, lunch and to his surprise found Sherlock a lot more independent with his life. A fact that was pleasant, but also a bit worrisome. Sherlock was already fairly antisocial; pushing those few he had contact with away with his uniqueness, for lack of a better term, could prove just as detrimental.

That is until a Doctor Watson came on to the scene, Mycroft receiving word that his brother had found a flat and to his surprise a flat mate the very next day. Naturally, he didn't think it would last. Assuming that, based on Sherlock's predilection for using people to procure information, this John Watson was just another pawn in the detective game. After reading the file on the good army doctor with a psychosomatic limp and mild trust issues, Mycroft decided a meeting was most certainly in order. He had to get to the bottom of this situation, if this man really was to take up residence with his brother he could prove very useful indeed.

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	6. Surprise

AN: I know these are short chapters, but I go by stopping points etc.

However don't fret, there is plenty more of this story. (Most likely ending at the fall...)

Also, to clarify, Sherlock is clean when he meets John...

As always Thanks for reading and reviewing etc...

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><p>Mycroft's first meeting with Dr. Watson did not go exactly to plan. In retrospect it may have been foolish to doubt a soldier's loyalty, but you couldn't blame him for being cautious. The whirlwind nature of their meeting to flat mate's left Mycroft to contemplate the man's motives. The jibe about the happy announcement was mostly to gage a reaction out of John; another foolish assumption, an amiable kidnapping and pleasant threat where nothing to the ex-army doctor.<p>

The older man watched his brother's new, dare he say friend, walk away with another vexing matter to deal with. John had blatantly refused to spy for money, while a good sign in a mate; it was hardly a useful quality. Then again, Mycroft rationalized that if John truly was to be some sort of companion for his brother he could gain information with ease. He knew there would still be things that escaped his watchful eye, but if he needed to know his own people could provide what the good doctor couldn't.

There was of course the backlash to consider, Sherlock was a hard man to be involved with in even the basic of ways. If the friendship proved mutual, what would happen if Dr. Watson had enough and left, or died? Mycroft pushed that thought away, he could keep it off to the side and deal with it once he had more information. Unfortunately more information required a word with his dear brother, and more than just brief banter at a crime scene.

"I know you tried bribery," Sherlock states haughtily, looking out the window of the Diogenes with his back to the other man.

"Can't blame me for trying…"

"I can blame you for a lot of things," he defies the older man, "Now what is this nonsense about, I'm busy."

"Must we always play these silly games," Mycroft sighs, "We both know what this is about."

"John is none of your business, and I'd thank you to leave him be."

"You're right he's not my business…" Mycroft sips his drink, "You, on the other hand, are."

"He's a doctor, his professional opinion is of use," Sherlock turns to inform him impassively.

"I'm to believe you're colleagues as well as flat mates, then."

"Believe what you will, I really can't be bothered."

"What I believe, dear brother," Mycroft states with mild condensation, "Is that this doctor you've acquired is a soldier first and foremost." He explains, "Whether he remains your helper or not, will depend entirely on you."

"Meaning?" Sherlock leads with a raised brow.

"Meaning," the elder clears his throat, "That he's unlikely to condone all of your antics."

"My antics," he repeats coolly.

"Have you told him?"

"He knows," Sherlock meets his brother's gaze challengingly.

"Clearly not everything…" He reads his brother plainly, "Though, I suppose a live in doctor is a wise investment on your part," Mycroft offers snidely.

"You're only in a tiff because you couldn't persuade him to become one of your pawns."

"Hardly," he sniffs.

"I'm leaving, do try not to kidnap anymore of my associates." Sherlock storms off.

Sherlock mildly seethes as he stalks down the street, bristling at the audacity of his brother. Mycroft was lucky he was the British government because he certainly acted like it well enough. The conversation certainly stirred up some thoughts. Yes, John was beneficial to the work; but what of the other aspects. It had been ages since Sherlock had a proper friend, though it seemed longer since he 'deleted', or more like buried, those memories. John Watson was certainly something surprising, which was a rare feat in itself considering.

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	7. Meetings

Mycroft watched his brother and his new flat-mate from afar, to assure the validity of John's attachment to Sherlock. After about a month or so, he decided a more congenial meeting was to be had with the doctor. Something less obtrusive then just showing up with a case or having the poor man unknowingly whisked off, so he made a call.

"Hullo Dr. Watson," John answered the phone in his office tiredly.

"Good day, Doctor," he greets.

"What can I help you with Mycroft," he sighs, coming up with various reasons Sherlock's pompous brother would be ringing him at work.

"I am sorry for troubling you at work," the older man offers with practiced politeness, but no real meaning. "However, I was wondering if you where available for lunch this afternoon."

"Um…" John pauses, trying to come up with any reason he could say no before coming up blank. "Right…Fine, yes… Probably didn't have a choice anyway."

"Don't be ridiculous John, of course you have a choice," he offers.

"That's a family trait, I see..." he grouses, getting enough condensation from Sherlock to warrant if from his brother at all.

"Hardly," Mycroft assures him, "I'll send the car shall I…" He states rather then asks, ending the call before John even had a chance to reply.

The increasingly familiar car pulls round when John leaves the clinic, the man cursing its sight and looking about as he slides into the leather interior. It's a short ride to a little sandwich shop, a bit off the beaten path, the eldest Holmes waiting regally in front. The area seemed strangely empty and John figured it was probably some sort of precaution perpetrated by the man he was to lunch with. With a deep breath the doctor exits the vehicle, already filing this as a bad idea.

"Good to see you again John," Mycroft greets politely.

"Hullo," He replies tentatively, following the older man into the café.

Once they're seated with their food, Mycroft dives right in to the business. "I'd like to make an arrangement of sorts with you."

"I told you before, I can't be bribed," he states sternly his jaw clenched with resolve.

"No no," he smirks, "It would be foolish to make that mistake twice."

"Right," John nods stiffly.

"What I propose, is a friendly exchange."

"A friendly exchange?" he repeats.

"Yes…we meet, much like we are now, and we talk," Mycroft shrugs.

"About Sherlock," the doctor supplies stoically.

"What has he told you about his… little problem?" He implies. "Not much I imagine."

John lets the words sink in until realization dawns on him, "Um…" he clears his throat, "No, not much," he nods thoughtfully. "There was the drugs bust when I first met him, couldn't believe Lestrade at first." He chuckles sardonically, "That's about it," he sighs honestly at that realization, "I was shocked, of course…"

"We all where," the elder man nods solemnly, "As intelligent as he is...well, that's not really my place…" He straightens switching tracks, "The cocaine started off as an experiment, as most of his endeavors, a 7% solution he developed for whatever reason… it was staying that way however."

"Addiction can be rough," John offers wisely, realizing how similar they were when it came to their siblings.

"Indeed," he nods absently, "You know just as well as I that the problem never really goes away and I want to know I can count on you John."

"This feels like an interview," he jokes to clear the tension, "Should have brought my CV…" he mumbles, starring down at the table thoughtfully. "If I agree," he starts, "And I'm not saying I am," he gives the other man a stern look, "If I agree to ease your concern, I want it to be clear that your involvement has nothing to do with it."

"Of course," Mycroft nods tightly.

"This is for my friend… Sherlock's well being," John informs him with resolution, "If for any moment, you make me question your sincerity it's off." He shrugs, "Nothing you can do to me would change that."

The older man is taken aback by the ex-army doctor, though he skillfully doesn't show it. "I think I understand Dr. Watson," he states, though actually admitting that he once again underestimated this man without actually saying that.

"Right… well, that seems to be another family trait," He shifts, acknowledging the meaning behind the other man's words as they're silent for a beat. "Also can you just call again, on my phone, when you wanta meet, yeah?" He asks lightly, "Sherlock doesn't follow me everywhere."

Mycroft merely smirks a bit pompously, "I assure you the secrecy hardly for his benefit."

After the lunch meeting, John obviously agreeing though he the choice was hardly a hard fought one. The men return to their respective jobs on amiable terms, John reading up on the effects of cocaine and such to make sure he was up to date. Mycroft's phone buzzed as soon as he stepped into his office.

NewMSG:

How dare you,

It wasn't your place

To tell him.

-SH

MSG: Sherlock

Would you

Have actually

Told him?

-MH

NewMSG:

.

-SH

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	8. Confrontation

AN: I know it's short but...oh well.

(Also if you're into S/J I started a new story called Let Somebody In and if you haven't yet and want more Holmes brother's growing up etc check out Brother's...)

Thank you guys for reading and commenting etc!

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><p>John trudged home, hoping against hope that Sherlock would be out somewhere. He wasn't in the mood for another Holmes conversation, but no such luck as the man in question was lounging on the sofa.<p>

"Richer now?" Sherlock intones accusingly.

"What you on about?" he shrugs out of his jacket and hangs it up, heading off to make tea.

"I know you saw my brother again, so…"

"Not that who I see is any of your business," John informs him potting about the kitchen, "But we just talked, yea."

"Please," he sneers, "My brother only talks when he gets something out of it, now explain."

"Mycroft's not as sinister as you make him out to be Sherlock… We just had a chat, looking out for his baby brother."

Sherlock quirks a brow at that, "Do speak plainly, and it would be good to remember not to underestimate what he's capable of."

"Plainly," he sighs thinking how best to phrase it, "Well your brother was making sure your new mate, me, had your best interests at heart."

"As hard to believe as that is…" he thinks for a beat before he realizes something, "I see, so he's getting the milk for free… as they say," he picks up the laptop.

"No, no, Sherlock." John corrects, "I'm not spying for him and I don't pretend to know what's been mucked up between the two of you, but… it's a at wits end thing… if ya will."

"Meaning…" he leads.

"Meaning, that if you're in a crisis or need help that I can't provide or you won't accept there's someone to turn to."

"God, he's so predictable," Sherlock sighs in irritation. "Alright then, let's hear…" he sits up to turn his accusing glare at John. "What deplorable things did he tell you about me?"

"Not much," he shrugs sitting his stuffed chair. "Is beating around the bush a Holmes thing, hmm?"

"So not a lot of details…"

"No, I know it was cocaine, or a solution of it…" John sips his tea, his manner clinical like he was dealing with a patient, "Started as an experiment, but he didn't say your reasoning for continuing… I doubt he knows it actually," he sighs.

"Does there need to be one?"

"I reckon so," he answers earnestly, "I doubt you of all people wouldn't have a logical reason for doing something… then again you can be quite stupid sometimes." He smirks a bit in jest.

"Right," Sherlock nods pensively, his mind turning things over, "I'm clean, case you were wondering… I'm not sure I like you fraternizing with the enemy, but there's probably no stopping you." He stands up, "Let's not talk about this again," he adds darkly, before striding off to his bedroom leaving a confused flat-mate in his wake.

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	9. Search

AN: In season two it's mentioned that John as searched the flat before etc... so this is addressing that.

* * *

><p>Once again, Mycroft was a mere background presence in his brother's life. Always watchful and distant, his mind luckily at ease due to one friend and doctor. The two of them growing closer on their little adventures together, in a way that if Mycroft really thought about he was a bit jealous of and couldn't help but wonder if that could have been him. It wouldn't due to dwell on what could have been, and it was never really in the elder Holmes nature to go gallivanting about; he was happy for his brother though. The drugs and the overall demeanor of his brother were never very conducive for fostering friendships, though John Watson was clearly the exception to this.<p>

It would be foolish, however, to think that nothing could go wrong with Sherlock. As he had said before there was no telling when something could happen, he just had to keep an eye out for the signs and the specific times that could possibly trigger it.

NewMSG:

I know you read that email

I didn't mean to send…

-SH

NewMSG:

You shouldn't have.

-SH

MSG: SH

What does it matter now?

That was ages ago.

-MH

NewMSG:

I don't want you

In my head.

-SH

MSG: SH

What's this really about?

-MH

NewMSG:

I hate you.

-SH

MSG: SH

What else is new?

Don't you have more

Important things to do?

I certainly do.

-MH

Mycroft waited, but he never received a reply. At first he figured it was just Sherlock being his usual obstinate self, but there was a nagging feeling in the back of his mind. It wasn't until he was typing the date on a report that his suspicion gained justification, and then he received another text.

NewMSG:

It might be in my

Mind, but he's

Acting… stranger than usual.

-JW

MSG: DrJW

It's almost his birthday.

-MH

NewMSG:

Stressor then?

-JW

MSG: DrJW

Perhaps…

-MH

NewMSG:

I'll let you know if I

find anything.

-JW

John wasn't sure what he'd find when he dragged himself home from the clinic, he was hoping for all this to just be a severe case of boredom. After all, his search came up empty, unless discovering that your flat-mate was a bit of contradiction then again he kind of new that already. Sherlock worked best in clutter, but some of his drawers, C.D.'s, and room in general was overly organized; though that could just be a product of boredom or an experiment in efficiency for all John new.

Climbing up the steps to the flat, John took a tired breathe before pushing into the shared room. It was empty. "Sherlock?" he called, looking about. Without a case Sherlock would no reason to leave the flat, preferring to skulk about instead. Heading down the hall he hears the shower turn on and pauses in front of the door, "Sherlock?" he raps gently.

He tries again, with still no answer. Which is a bit unnerving, John shuffles awkwardly in front of the door until he decides to make a cuppa; the simple action proving time to make sure his mate is really taking a shower. The older man sits, hardly enjoying his tea with the trepidation he feels as his fingers idly drum on the arm of the chair.

Little over an hour, John goes to the door again, "Sherlock, you alright in there?" The silence continues, save for the noise of the water running. "You're not the only one in this flat," he tries knocking on the door. Giving up, he tries the door handle to find it locked, "You don't answer me, I'm breaking the door down." John warns, it's a lie of course hoping to gain an answer; ending up using a trick to pop the lock.

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	10. Flee

The door swings open revealing a fully clothed Sherlock, lounging in the tub, under the spray of the shower with his long legs stretched up against the tiled wall. He's staring straight ahead one arm hanging out of the tub covered in nicotine patches while John takes in the sight before him, noticing some paraphernalia on the closed lid of the toilet.

"What are you doing?" He inquires expectantly.

"Experiment of sorts," Sherlock chatters lowly, John realizing that the water is all the way to cold.

"Experiment…" he intones, "What you're going to water torture yourself until the craving goes away?"

"In a way, yes…" he drawls.

"Let's just remove temptation shall we," John scoops the offending items off the toilet and drops them in to flush them. He turns off the shower then sits on the lid with his arms crossed, waiting expectantly for Sherlock to speak.

"That was unnecessary."

"Was, it?"

"Mmm," Sherlock hums, still not looking at the other man, "I wasn't going to use it."

"You where thinking about it Sherlock," he glares, "And why didn't you answer me? Two hours in the shower, for all I knew you could have been drowning in here."

"That would take a considerable amount of contortionism to achieve."

"I doubt that'd stop you," John challenges. "Now what's going on?"

"Irrelevant."

"It's really not, now I want answers."

"You've talked to my brother, surely you know…" Sherlock blinks slowly as he shivers a bit.

"I want to know what's going on from you," he snaps, "Your brother knows nothing, because you don't talk to anyone. There's something going on here, but for reasons unknown you don't want to let anyone help you or at the very least understand."

"You're upset," He intones, the question of why as an undercurrent.

"Yea, I am Sherlock," John huffs, "Because on a scale of not good this is at the top." He rubs a hand over his face, "Now I will sit here, until you deign to talk to me."

"And if I refuse?"

"I can be very patient."

The men sit in silence staring at each other, waiting for the other to crack. After a good ten minutes John decides to try another tactic.

"It's almost your birthday…" he leads, earning a look.

"Fine," Sherlock sighs dramatically, using his arms to sit up more in the tub. "Will you permit me to change before we have this little chat?"

The older man scans him for a beat before nodding, "Right, get dried off," he stands, "I'll but the kettle on."

In retrospect, John should have seen it coming. Sherlock was skilled in deception, but that didn't stop the older man from berating himself for falling for it. While setting about making a fresh pot of tea, Sherlock did indeed change out of his wet clothes. John turned as the door to Sherlock's bedroom opened, to see the coated man flee down the stairs and out into the night.

"Sherlock," he calls after him, grabbing his coat and following, "Come back here you idiot!" When he gets to the street there's no sight of his flat mate in the brisk fall night.

Climbing back up to the flat in frustration, his phone chimes with a new message. He reads it as he sinks back down into his chair to wait.

NewMSG:

Frustrating,

Isn't it?

-MH

John shakes his head, squeezing his mobile in his fist and taking mild comfort in the fact that the whole of the British government was watching out for the daft genius.

MSG: MH

Usually…

-JW

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	11. Rescue

John wakes up the next morning startled to find Sherlock sitting across from him, perched on the back of his chair expectantly. Blinking the sleep out of his eyes to fully wake up, the events of the previous night come back.

"Where the hell have you been," he starts.

"Out," Sherlock replies curtly.

The doctor scrutinizes the younger man for any signs of drug use, but finds none. "I'm still waiting."

"Yes…"

"Well?" John inquires, "Why now? How long has it been? Why did you scamper off last night?"

"Don't know. Years. Needed to think," he replies in quick succession.

"You couldn't think here?" he practically shouts, "And what do you mean you don't know?"

"If I consciously knew what caused this… inconvenience, besides boredom of course, it wouldn't happen."

"Bollocks," John huffs, "It's an unhealthy copping mechanism, Sherlock and there's something bothering you that you need to deal with."

"You don't know that," he challenges.

"Need I remind you about my sister's little problem?" He stands moving about.

"Alcohol is a depressant, this is hardly the same thing," Sherlock drawls, watching the other man pace.

"An addiction is an addiction, regardless," he snaps, "She drinks to cope with what she thinks and feels while still experiencing them, you on the other hand…" He glares, as the younger man squirms at the scrutiny. "Use it as a distraction, not just from the boredom…"

"Are you done?" Sherlock asks quietly, his eyes down cast.

"No, not until you tell me what is bothering you."

"What do you want me to say?" he snaps, "You won't understand! Yes, it's a distraction, because my mind doesn't stop!" He shouts, "Everything going on at once, and it's hard and I think of things that…" He runs his hands through his hair in frustration, "Have you ever thought about death to the point that you realize that if you died, you'd no longer exist and you have no idea what that possibly means because logically there's no god and the data on the supposed afterlife is insufficient at best so you dwell on that for so long that it paralyzes you, the body dies, but does it take the conscious mind with it? Because death is the one inevitable thing on this planet, it will happen no matter what I do or what any one does. So sorry for wanting to use something that makes me normal."

John stares at him agape, as Sherlock storms off to his bedroom. The doctor trying to process everything that was just divulged as his flat mate sulks because he showed his hand a bit. The doctor realizing that everything Sherlock does is in some form a distraction, something to focus his mind on. In theory he understands, but Sherlock was right that he doesn't fully comprehend it. There's no way for him to know what it's like to need distraction to that degree because of fear that you'll tear your own mind apart. Yes, John does over think situations and isn't the most forth coming with his own emotions and such, he did have a therapist that he never really opened up to after all. When left to it, Sherlock delves so deeply that he plays over the various outcomes of situations, realizing what would have been the best action and hating that that wasn't what happened.

When time seems to catch up to the good doctor, he realizes he is indeed alone in the sitting room still staring at the spot Sherlock vacated. Quickly coming to a discussion he goes and raps on his flat mate's door, "Sherlock?" There's no reply, but he presses on anyway, "You're right, I don't understand…" he sighs, "But I can listen and help any way I can… a trifle better than the skull I reckon," he chuckles a bit awkwardly. "I am a doctor remember…" he adds after a beat. "Right, well the offer's there." He shrugs, heading to the kitchen for a spot of breakfast.

Sherlock strides in as soon as the teas done, taking the mug offered to him, "Noted," He replies simply to the doctor's earlier offer, heading to the laptop.

John shakes his head, but smiles a bit at the recognition of his words; the men falling back to normalcy.

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